


Missing

by BourbonNeat



Category: Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Episode-centric, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, fest: TGS Spring Challenge 2014, series filming-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2018-01-25 10:43:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1645805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BourbonNeat/pseuds/BourbonNeat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Top Gear filming is brilliant fun but it sure can play hell with one’s sex life. Oh, and the pink and purple rugby shirt of doom has gone missing. Set during the filming of Top Gear Series 21 (which is, apparently, just full of bunnies) but on a fictionalized timeline.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Missing

**Author's Note:**

> My last TGS Spring Challenge, much longer than a drabble, fill - written for James May Week, Day 7, “The Pink and Purple Rugby Shirt of Doom is missing”.
> 
> Disclaimer: This is fiction. It never happened and is not meant to imply anything about the people featured in the story. Complete unreality from a fanciful mind.

The ‘Oh cock, I’m late!’ alarm went off on James’ mobile while he was still only half dressed and towel drying his hair. This morning, however, it inspired more of an ‘Oh cock, I forgot to turn that off!’ as he dove back towards the nightstand and fumbled to silence the bloody thing before it woke up Jeremy.

He needn’t have bothered, really. Jeremy had any number of difficulties falling asleep, but once he actually succeeded in sleeping, especially after a night like last night, he tended to remain asleep until his own alarm informed him that he simply had no other choice in the matter. Indeed, Jeremy stirred just enough in his sleep to get comfortable again, rolling over onto his side and shuffling closer to the middle of the bed without waking. In doing so, however, on some level he became aware that he was alone under the duvet.

As James watched, Jeremy reached out reflexively to wrap an arm around a warm body that was no longer there, his features creasing into a long frown when he encountered empty space. The hand paused briefly, then slid across the bed, reaching blindly, until it eventually encountered James’ pillow, vacated not fifteen minutes before. Still far more asleep than awake, Jeremy pulled the pillow close, hugging it to his chest, pressing his face into the cotton, and inhaling deeply before settling back down into full sleep with a small sigh of contentment and his lips turned up in a smile. James shook his head fondly as he observed the routine. It was all he could do not to crawl back into bed and curl himself around the, for the moment at least, quite frankly adorable, oaf.

They really hadn’t been doing this for very long. Two years since Jeremy’s marriage finished its long, slow crumble and he moved to London full time. Eighteen months since James and Sarah had parted more abruptly but with less bitterness and resentment. A mere eight months since his relationship with Jeremy had moved from years of casual flirting into, well, a _Relationship_ , and for so much of that time, they’d been on the road.

Even though they spent almost every night that found them in the same city together, this was all still so new that any words that might define or explain it had yet to pass their lips. This didn't, however, stop James from feeling things that he wasn't ready to put a name to, and feeling them deeply. But whenever he saw Jeremy do this thing with his pillow, a completely unconscious gesture the older man repeated every time James was the first to rise, James felt his heart flip a little in his chest and somehow it became easier to believe that maybe he wasn’t the only one for whom this had become something a great deal more than casual.

With a sigh of his own, James turned away from the bed reluctantly and, giving up on his hair as a mostly hopeless cause, went off in search of a clean shirt. It hadn’t been his primary concern at the time, but his alarm wasn’t lying – he was indeed quite late. Staying the night at Jeremy’s flat – for three nights running – right before he left for filming was far from ideal, James reminded himself as he shoved his things into his travel bag. But they’d only just gotten back from Top Gear Live in Poland and wouldn’t both be in London again at the same time for another three weeks, _at least_ another three weeks. This inconvenience was worth it.

Catching sight of the time, James hurriedly crammed the last few things into his bag and forced it closed. At this point, if he practiced much more of a lapsed Christian style of motoring, he would just make his flight. Leaning over the sleeping Jeremy, he pressed a quick good-bye kiss to the man's ever expanding bald patch, without waking him, and dashed for the door. The real good-byes had come last night – come long and hard, in fact, and then, in an increasingly unlikely these days surprise, came again about an hour later.

 

*** * * * ***

Three days on the Isle of Man for James to finish the last pickup shots for his Toy Stories: Motorcycle Diaries and film an upcoming segment for Man Lab. Three days, or was that four? He was entering another one of those periods of pure filming insanity where all of his various schedules started to blur together. And, in this particular context, there was nothing even remotely hyperbolic about the term insanity, especially since Jeremy’s various schedules had recently become more important to James’ various schedules than ever before.

Then James was back in London, but might as well have still been travelling for all that he saw the inside of his Hammersmith home – meetings and planning sessions for his various side projects, filming at the Dunsfold track, and a few public appearances with Oz for various charities. Jeremy and Richard traded text message banter with him from southern Italy, where they were filming the latest Top Gear Christmas DVD and tweeting pure vehicular pornography – Porsches, Paganis, Bugattis. Oh. My. James’ latest batch of review cars simply could not compare, so he countered by tweeting odes to his Little Honda motorbike.

While Jeremy and Richard moved their Perfect Road Trip to France, James was finally able to catch a few days’ break. He puttered about in his garage and tweeted more Little Honda poems with increasingly less sobriety from his local, while Jeremy taunted him with tweeted photos of crisp white wine and sunny weather. On two separate nights they teased and tormented one another across the miles into solo frenzies with increasingly filthy texts that absolutely did not constitute a competition of any sort. Probably.

A few days later, while packing for his next trip, James noticed that his favorite pink and purple rugby shirt was missing – somewhere between Jeremy’s flat, the Isle of Man, and Hammersmith as near as he could figure, but he couldn’t actually remember seeing it in any of those places. No matter. It had always turned up before. James packed different stripes in its place and boarded the plane for the south of France. _Perfect time to go driving in France_ , he tweeted, _Fewer imbeciles on the roads for the next 90 days. #IPredictMoreFilmingInItalyThisSeries_ The thought of Jeremy and Richard’s expressions when they landed at Heathrow in about an hour and read the tweet kept him smiling the entire flight.

By the time James returned from France, Jeremy and Richard were indeed filming in Italy again, a race and review of the gorgeous new Alfa Romeo 4C against the Gibbs Quadski around and across Lake Como. Counting this as evidence in support of his apparent powers of twitter prognostication, however, would hardly be fair. Andy had planned this film shoot months ago. 

 

*** * * * ***

James answered the call from Jeremy only to find himself on speaker on Clarkson’s mobile with Jeremy and Richard, and what was clearly a sizable share of the Lake Como region’s zymurgical offerings. He broke out in a broad grin, laughter bubbling up in his throat the moment he heard their happily clattered banter on the line, and started mentally calculating the days until they were all three together in Burma. An introvert at heart, James had always valued a bit of alone time – sometimes quite a lot of alone time, truth be told – so he was happy enough on his own in London this week. But his favorite films to make were always the ones that found all three of them cocking about on location, and there just weren’t very many of those this series. Some series were like that.

Unfortunately, they were calling at least in part to complain about the film schedule going awry. James already knew about the weather delays, his and Jeremy’s longstanding texting habit having increased from merely a frequent occurrence, to a several times daily occurrence. But the faulty camera on the Quadski was new information. Andy hadn’t said anything yet, but with this on top of the other delays, all three of them knew from long experience that the end result was a minimum of an extra day filming, quite probably two. Either way, Jeremy would no longer make it back to London before James left for his own film shoot in Italy, after which he would return to London for some preliminary Man Lab meetings just in time to pass Jeremy at Heathrow headed back to Italy for a date with an Alfa Romeo special project.

Richard initially expressed surprise when his colleagues both sounded so disappointed over a fairly standard snag in the filming schedule, but his voice soon went high in amused understanding.

“Oh, that’s right!” Richard sputtered and then began giggling. “Because now he’ll be there and you’ll be here, and then he’ll be here and you’ll be there.”

James could practically see Richard’s drunkenly pointing finger wavering back and forth between Jeremy and the phone as he spoke, body no doubt rocking with laughter.

“It’s really not that funny, Hammond,” James said, shaking his head in mild annoyance. But he was also laughing now because, whenever Richard laughed like that, it was virtually impossible not to join him.

“Oh, but it is,” Richard cackled with glee. “Cockblocked by Wilman and the weather. Tough break, chaps.” He clucked his tongue in mock sympathy. “Well, I’ll be sure to have an extra go or two in honor of the deprived when I get home.”

“Charming, mate,” James said wryly.

“Nice, Hamster,” Jeremy added in a similar tone. “I’ll be sure to share that with Mindy.”

“You go right ahead. You know she’ll laugh even harder than I am right now.”

And Richard was right. James could just picture Mindy, petite frame shaking with laughter as she tried and failed to find it within herself to scold her hysterically vulgar husband.

 

*** * * * ***

Alone in Hammersmith with two more unoccupied days than he’d originally planned on, James set about catching up on neglected chores. He was disappointed of course – more than, really – but he was also practical. Even if Jeremy had made it back to London on schedule, they would’ve barely had time for anything more than a quick shag, really, before James needed to be on his way, and this snag only added another two weeks to their time apart, almost no time at all while filming a series.

Scheduling anything even remotely approximating regular life might be impossible during these filming rushes, but James couldn’t really complain. He loved this strange, difficult, brilliant presenting life immensely, as much as Jeremy did, and he wasn’t going to give it up for any reason until he simply wasn’t allowed to do it anymore. Besides, in a real sense, the pronounced increase in these periods of filming insanity over the years was how he and Jeremy came to be in the first place. Other partners, even partners who thought they understood what they were getting themselves into, simply couldn’t live like this for years on end.

As a replacement for his original plans, this didn’t even rate, but James _was_ finally able to do all of the laundry that had been piling up since just before Top Gear Live, instead of continuing to subsist on the ‘one quick load to get me by’ system that had gotten him through the last several weeks. However, even after the earliest geological layer in the laundry pile – a layer with evidence strongly suggesting that early autumn Top Gear man had, at least, discovered the uses of tools and beer – was clean, folded and put away, that sodding pink and purple rugby shirt was nowhere to be found.

James was certain he’d left it here, but perhaps he had left it at Jeremy’s flat after all. Surely it wasn’t lost for good, not when he clearly remembered packing it back in his bag after wearing it onstage in Poland. Ah Poland! The mere thought made him flush and grow hard. Falling into his hotel room bed with Jeremy, both of them still high from a day of outrageously successful performances in front of their largest audiences yet, and more than a bit clattered from the wrap party. Realizing that they may actually have found the noisiest springs in all of Eastern Europe a little too late to avoid Hammond’s annoyed pounding on their shared wall, they’d laughed and quickly moved the action to the floor, shameless and gagging for it like a couple of horny university students.

With that memory pleasantly teasing his brain, James abandoned the last of the folded laundry in favor of an early shower. Suddenly he had more, well, pressing concerns than misplaced stripes.

 

*** * * * ***

James closed his eyes in pleasure as the crisp mineral taste of the Vermentino hit his tongue. This was one of those varietals he could rarely find outside of Italy and it was a favorite, so he could be forgiven if he was already on his third glass as he relaxed with the crew in the bar of their Turin hotel. They were shooting a film comparing several of the new Fiats – a throw away piece, really, one that Andy would only use for the new series if one of the other films fell through. Still, a good day’s work was a good day’s work and James was sliding lower into the cushions of his chair in a pleasant haze of tired and tipsy as he listened to the banter around him, occasionally offering a comment of his own.

Certainly the last thing he expected to see when he looked up was Jeremy, striding into the bar just as casually as if he were catching up with the team after one of his usual phone call delays. He greeted the surprised group with an absolutely gorgeous smile and looked at James with mischief positively dancing in his grey-blue eyes as he eased his long body down into a vacant chair. 

“I've been reading the papers this week,” Jeremy announced pleasantly as if he hadn’t just joined them all out of the blue and was merely picking up the thread of an earlier conversation. “And apparently I am a hopeless drain on our good taxpayers. Yes, that’s right, I make all of the BBC license money…in the _world_.”

“Bloody hell, Jezza,” James groaned as everyone laughed. “Not the Daily Mail again.”

“Oh yes, the Daily Fail. And based on their expert opinion, I've decided what better time for a little conspicuous consumption? And new cars are so expected. Might as well give them something to write about as they’re clearly out of actual news.”

“So, Turin with us then, obviously,” teased Ben, one of the cameramen. “No terrible weekends in some dump like Tuscany or Venice or, you know, staying in the hotel room you already had at Lake Como, for you.”

James attempted to play along, but he knew he was blinking his eyes in confusion and that probably spoiled the effect. In contrast, most of the crew seemed to have recovered from their initial surprise quite quickly. James shook his head. Today notwithstanding, he had thought he and Jeremy were being reasonably subtle. But their colleagues were, after all, a bright bunch of chaps who knew them both rather well. A few years ago James would have been trying to disappear under his long hair right about now, but over time he had grown more comfortable with himself and, well, almost everything. Besides, these men were like family, that and he wore his hair a bit shorter these days. He would never be one for big public announcements – any announcements, really – but if they just knew, well, that was all right.

“Lake Como, please,” Jeremy said dryly with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Tired old lake views and depressingly fresh mountain air.” He paused for a moment until at least one or two of them started to lean forward expectantly before continuing with a smug grin. “I only have a few days until I have to fly back here again and only my laundry and a mile high stack of junk mail to go home to, so I figured I’d come and bother you lot. Pathetic, right?”

Some of the crew were clearly buying it while Ben, Will and a few of the others sipped at their wine and beer to hide knowing smiles. James decided that with Jeremy here stealing glances at him from time to time with _that_ smile, he really didn’t much care what they thought. He finished this glass of wine a lot more slowly.

In a complete reversal of his usual order of operations, James sobered up as they lingered over dinner, staying with the crew just long enough for both their own enjoyment and appropriate appearances, before they disappeared upstairs.

James pinned Jeremy to the wall of his hotel room as soon as the door had clicked shut, kissing him long and hard and deep. He could have waited the extra two weeks and without complaint, but now that he no longer had to, he found he was almost desperate for contact. Jeremy clearly felt the same way, running large hands through James’ hair and down his back, griping his arse firmly, pulling him closer.

“Well I never thought these words would cross my lips, but my thanks to the Daily Mail.” James said wryly when they finally came up for air, both of them sporting grins that bordered on big and silly. “I think I could really grow to like this conspicuous consumption idea,” he added, as Jeremy pushed him gently away from the wall and in the direction of the bed.

But when James flopped down on the bed, Jeremy remained standing, wearing a thoughtful expression James recognized from any number of days on the track and in the studio, one that usually meant he was trying several phrases out in his head and discarding them one by one.

“All right,” James said, his voice warm but neutral, knowing how Jeremy would bristle if he let too much concern trickle in. “What’s happened then?”

Jeremy ducked his head and put his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels almost nervously. “Well, the papers really are being horrid again, you know.”

“Naturally,” James snorted derisively. “Unless they suddenly become weeklies or you decide to be a recluse, ‘tis a logical assumption more days than not.”

“You’re not wrong, there.” Jeremy agreed with a rueful laugh. “No. I was going to take my flight home as planned, but then Richard was on the phone with Mindy. And you know how they are…”

James nodded with a sympathetic smile. Richard and Mindy were a perfect match, a very rare thing indeed. Well into their second decade together, they were still the kind of in love with one another that made you think maybe there were a few more things right with the world than you'd given it credit for just to look at them.

“…Right. And I’m not – I mean, it’s not as if I begrudge him. She’s great, they’re both great. I just…”

“You adore them both to bits, but it can be rather depressing listening to the little sod happily making arrangements to go home to his lovely wife when you don’t have anyone to go home to,” James finished for him knowingly.

“Exactly!” Jeremy said, pleased at being understood. He crossed the small room in two long strides, sat down on the bed next to James and kissed him again, tenderly this time, suddenly seeming almost shy. “But that’s just it, you see. I realized that I do have someone to go home to, someone very worth going home to, despite all of the awful flowers and stripes. It’s just, well, you were in Italy.”

Jeremy shrugged in a completely unsuccessful attempt at casual and slowly raised his eyes to meet James’, clearly expecting to be laughed at or told he was being too wet, but James was far too busy melting to do either. He knew that Jeremy missed him when they were apart, and he was starting to believe that the man’s reasons might have grown beyond just the guarantee of easy sex. But he hadn’t expected – this was just so… Perhaps he wasn’t the only one growing a bit less awkward with his feelings with age.

“Well this is good,” he said softly, pulling Jeremy close and kissing him fiercely. “Because you’re rather worth coming home to yourself, and _you_ aren’t going to be home when _I_ get there.”

Jeremy sagged in obvious relief. “Good. That’s – this is very good,” he managed in between kisses that were growing steadily more heated.

“Now, if you don't fuck me soon, James,” Jeremy rumbled in his ear, low and dirty, a few moments later, “I swear I’m going to explode.”

James pulled away a little, laughing. Apparently they were finished with heartfelt for the evening, a prospect which actually suited him just fine – not that James intended to let such a Clarksonesque transition slide by without mockery.  “I missed you too, Jeremy.”

“I’m not joking,” Jeremy pouted, but the smile in his eyes belied his sulky expression. “I’ve been a miserable git and it’s your duty as my friend and colleague to ensure that I’m fit for public consumption.”

“I see, for the good of Top Gear, then?”

Jeremy nodded, grey-blue eyes now dark with lust and twinkling with mirth.

“I don’t know,” James said, tilting his head as if in thoughtful consideration. “I think I’m going to have to review my contract when we get home. Some of these special addendums sound questionable…”

James’ teasing ended in a gasp of surprised pleasure as Jeremy pushed him down into soft hotel sheets with a filthy laugh and straddled him, pinning both of his wrists above his head. James wriggled free and they wrestled playfully and laughed, kissing more and more frequently as clothing flew to the floor with increasingly less care and folding, and their touches stretched into teasing, then lingering caresses.

Eventually James did do as Jeremy had asked – How could he not? – stretching the older man open thoroughly, lovingly with long fingers, before sinking into the glory of hot, tight flesh. They writhed and moaned together, slowly and gently at first, then hard and fast and desperate for release.

Later, lying in bed sticky and sated with Jeremy snoring softly spooned up behind him, one arm draped possessively over his belly, James was as happy as he’d ever been. Even better, James might be working tomorrow and the next day, but that meant they had one more night together before he had to fly back to London and Jeremy headed for Milan.

 

*** * * * ***

Surprising James in Italy turned out to be an unusually good Clarkson decision for more than just the obvious reasons, because the moment James left Italy the pure filming insanity resumed.

Within hours of landing at Heathrow, he was back at Dunsfold thoroughly enjoying the Caterham 160 and cursing the existence of the Caterham 620R, more specifically its existence on his list of scheduled reviews. He tweeted photos of both cars in response to the stunning Iain May photos of the Disco Volante Jeremy had tweeted earlier in the day.

Technically Jeremy and James might have both been in London for the same five hours a few days later, but James spent that time packing for a Man Lab shoot up in Scotland. Reaching for his pink and purple rugby shirt out of habit, he was reminded all over again of its vexing continued refusal to turn up. Oh well, he’d be back at Jeremy’s flat in a few days and would look for it then.

Except, it was simply not meant to be. This time the weather delays were all on James’ end of things and, saddled with two extra days of filming, he missed the small window of time before Jeremy had to travel again to finish a few last minute pieces for his own upcoming documentary. James stopped by the flat anyway on his drive back through London and, using the spare key he’d had for roughly forever, determined that the rugby shirt wasn’t there either. Now he was well and thoroughly perplexed. He contemplated tweeting a joking plea for its return, but quickly discarded the idea as something all too likely to grow out of hand before he’d even made the drive back to Hammersmith.

James enjoyed a few days of downtime at home while Jeremy flew to Belgium to test drive the new McLaren P1. Jeremy was as excited as James had ever heard him on the phone that night as he nearly ran out of metaphors praising the astonishing car’s many virtues. The next night they traded benign barbs over twitter while James tried his hand at a new risotto recipe – a new risotto recipe he almost over cooked to the point of sticky mess when the significantly more private text conversation they were having simultaneously got decidedly steamy. James had to laugh – he was every bit as horny these days as he’d been when he first let himself discover boys at Uni but, even separated like this, he was having at least four times as much fun.

Jeremy flew back to London two days later but by then James was already in the air headed for Afghanistan. Nothing at Camp Bastion would go from 0 to 100 km/h in 2.8 seconds, but James was every bit as excited to be making this film as Jeremy had been testing the McLaren.

 

*** * * * ***

It was gone three in the morning when James finally crept into Jeremy’s London flat, trying desperately not to wake his… Lover? Boyfriend? Ugh, certainly neither of those. They hadn’t really bothered determining appropriate adjectives yet, which might make certain conversations a bit awkward but suited James well enough anyway. The available vocabulary seemed unsuitable at best and it wasn’t as if they’d needed terminology to agree upon the concept in Turin.

James had arrived in London from Afghanistan less than an hour before and, for once, nearly half a day ahead of schedule. To say he was knackered would be a complete understatement. But his last text from Jeremy more than a week ago – civilian mobile reception being a sketchy thing at best where he’d been – had been quite clear: _Come to the flat as soon as you get back, Slow. I don’t care what time it is. I miss you and I feel a profound need to molest you._ How could he argue with that?

Jeremy had a tendency to start shedding his clothes as soon as he walked into the bedroom and leave them wherever they fell until it was time to do laundry. James had tripped over enough randomly scattered shoes and casually discarded jeans over the last few months to know better than to try and make his way through that now familiar room in the dark. He turned on the light and blinked in surprise at the sight greeting him. Jeremy was fast asleep, curled on his side facing the door, a slight smile on his face as if dreaming of pleasant things. But the truly unexpected part, the part that made James’ heart swell in his chest until he couldn’t help but sigh, was that Jeremy had both arms hugged tightly around the missing pink and purple rugby shirt as if it were a pillow James had slept on the night before.

James stripped off his own clothes, folding them neatly and setting them on top of the nightstand, pulled on pajama bottoms and crawled into bed. Jeremy opened his eyes groggily when he felt the bed moving and beamed as soon as he saw James, that big, beautifully fond smile that made his eyes sparkle and James’ insides do pleasant flipping things.

“You’re home,” Jeremy murmured, voice low and husky with sleep but pleased.

“And so are you,” James said warmly, reaching out to run his hand through now grey curls slowly going to white. “At the same time even. I was starting think that was against the law.”

Jeremy started to say something in response, but his eyes dropped to the rugby shirt still held in his arms and he frowned, looking back at James sheepishly. James grinned and shook his head, waiting for an explanation in an echo of Turin.

Jeremy sighed, clearly preparing for ridicule, and explained himself in a uniquely Clarkson blend of contrite, defensive and mocking. “I couldn’t sleep while you were away and then I saw that you’d left this behind and, well, you’d think such loud stripes would keep a person awake, but surprisingly they make it easier to sleep.”

“So much so that they followed you from London to Oslo and Bruges?” James asked fondly.

“Might have done,” Jeremy muttered, staring fixedly at James’ chest. “But only because I barely slept at all in Italy once you’d gone home.”

Jeremy paused a moment, sucking his lips into a thin nervous line, before lifting his eyes to finally meet James’. “Hopelessly soppy, right?”

“Very,” James agreed. “But also quite romantic which, since you’re already being soppy, I’m willing to admit I might like a little.”

“Well of course you do, James,” Jeremy said, brightening considerably. “Big girl’s blouse.”

“Well, you would know,” James said dryly, with a significant look at the pink and purple rugby shirt lying between them.

Before Jeremy had a chance to respond, James moved the shirt to the nightstand and pulled the grinning oaf into his arms for a long, lingering kiss. Suddenly he wasn’t quite as tired as he’d thought and he could think of many more useful activities for their mouths than continuing to dance between snark and near endearments.

They were both in London, in the same flat, in the same bed and they had four entire days until they had to start packing for Burma, plenty of time to let actions continue to speak more eloquently than words were yet able.


End file.
